Grievances
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Mid-series 1 scene. Isobel is irritated, and Dr. Clarkson wants to know why, and it leads to an unplanned confession. Maybe a one shot.
1. Chapter 1

**A short mid-series 1 scene. Dr. Clarkson irons out one of Isobel's grievances. **

He knew her well enough by now to know that something was wrong. Her movements were sharper somehow than they usually were; quicker and a touch more aggressive as she moved around the office- his office, well, it was rapidly becoming hers now, and he found he didn't mind. And because he knew her well enough to be able to tell that something was wrong, he supposed that he also knew her well enough to be allowed to ask what it was. She was apparently oblivious to him standing there awkwardly as she continued to move around the room quickly, hovering over her desk and distractedly sorting through a pile of papers.

"Mrs Crawley, is anything the matter?"

She looked up briefly, just for long enough to take him in, looking back down again just as quickly.

"Nothing at all," she replied shortly.

He exhaled deeply. It was foolish of him- what else had he expected when she was plainly in a bad mood?- but still he felt the pang of her so plainly pushing him away from her.

He had sighed more loudly than he'd thought, and now she was looking up at him, almost expectantly.

"What?" she asked.

He folded his arms across his chest, drawing his jacket more securely around himself, and said nothing. She continued to look at him questioningly.

"Well, there obviously is something the matter!" he surprised himself by exclaiming, "Otherwise you wouldn't be acting like that."

"Like what?" she enquired, tilting her head rather accusingly to one side.

"Like... that..." he pointed rather hopelessly to where she had been fussing irritably over her desk a few moments ago, unable to phrase her behaviour in a way that was not likely to exacerbate the situation.

She shrugged her shoulders and said lightly: "I'm afraid I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Dr. Clarkson."

Consciously this time, he exhaled deeply.

She turned back to him.

"Do you really want to know what's the matter?" she asked him curiously.

"Yes!" he insisted, "If you want to tell me."

"Well, you might not like it, but if you want to know, then fine," she drew a deep breath, folding her own arms, and then said, with an air of great conviction, "I am beginning to believe that no one wants an intelligent woman."

He opened his mouth to dispute this fact, but she cut him off.

"I told you you wouldn't like it. But it's true, that's what I think. Oh, yes, of course you men will say that you find intelligence very attractive and maybe you do, but think about it. You are attracted to a woman first, you find her beautiful, and then if she's intelligent, well then it's like the cherry on the cake. It's never the thing you really love her for."

He was rather disconcerted by the way she kept saying "you" with a particularly vehement inflection to it, but he thought it was probably best not to address that at the moment.

"What's brought this on?" he asked her gently.

The softness in his tone apparently surprised her for a second and she looked up sharply.

"Oh, just this and that," she gesticulated vaguely, the wind somehow having been taken out of her sails, "Mainly Edith and, well, things..."

"Ah, poor Lady Edith," he nodded empathetically.

"Exactly, poor Edith," she agreed, "She tries so hard, the poor lamb, and she's just as clever as either of the other two, but she hasn't got their looks so no one's interested. It's painful to watch sometimes, and today it's made me angry."

There was a pause for a second. She continued to look down at her desk, and he had a feeling that she was deliberately avoiding his eye.

"To think," she continued after a while, her tone light and incredulous, "That when I was young I didn't want to be pretty. I never was, mark you, but I was glad of it because I didn't want to be. I thought a man would love me for my mind, in fact I expected no less. How naïve of me," she remarked sadly, finally looking up to meet his eye.

Not for the first time, the sight of the emotion written plainly across her face took his breath away. Simultaneously, though, it made him feel bound to speak.

"Oh, Mrs Crawley. Isobel," he tried out her first name, "I don't attempt to deny what you're saying; it's probably true, we men can be dreadfully shallow sometimes. But rest assured that even if you are right, you have nothing to worry about. I think you're beautiful anyway."

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	2. Chapter 2

**Batwings is of course right, I am incapable of writing a oneshot. Thank you so much for your reviews, I'm so glad you enjoed the last chapter.**

She barely even blinked.

"That's exactly what I mean!" she uttered in some frustration, "You-... Wait, you-...?"

Suddenly she seemed to cotton on to what he'd just said to her. The expression of exasperation faded away to be replaced by a new one of startlement. For a few moments, she could not disguise her surprise in the slightest and simply stared at him. Then, resting her hand against the desk, she seemed to stir herself and looked at him very plainly.

"You can't possibly call that a valid counter argument," she informed him in an admirable attempt at sternness.

"I don't," he told her softly, "Only an opinion."

"Well," she continued, uncertainly. Now he could see the blush creeping up her neck and tingeing her cheeks. He knew she was aware of it too, she was looking abominably, endearingly self-conscious. "Well, an opinion, yes. Quite. But hardly relevant to the argument as a whole," she pointed out, only managing to regain a little of her previous aggravation. She seemed to have been somewhat thrown by the remark, he noted with pleasure.

He had not realised that her flustered and awkward, blushing under his compliment, would be quite as beautiful as her strong and capable. Perhaps even more so. He wanted to kiss her. Badly. But it seemed that he had already alarmed her enough without that as well.

"No," he agreed, inclining his head to her, trying not to smile, "I'll leave you, Mrs Crawley. Good afternoon."

He turned to go, but didn't quite make it to the door.

"Dr. Clarkson?"

He hoped he didn't wheel back around too quickly at the sound of her voice calling him.

"Yes, Mrs Crawley?" he enquired politely.

She looked as if she was stirring herself to say something.

"Thank you for the compliment," she told him, a small smile creeping across her lips- he wondered if it was a trick of the light that he saw her eyes shining a little- "It means a lot, coming from a man like you."

He knew he shouldn't, he knew it was indiscreet of him to pursue the matter, but he would have had to have been a saint not to when she was so plainly offering him such a chance. He raised his eyebrow; hoping to effect an air of nonchalance when all the while his heart was pounding in his ears.

"Like me, Mrs Crawley?"

The smile seemed to shorten a little in her lips- from which he realised his eyes had barely strayed- but did not altogether fade.

"Yes, like you," she told him, her eyes falling a little so that she was watching his hands rather than his face, "Handsome, well-respected, kind, intelligent. I'm sure I'm not the only woman who would take such a remark very well. Very well indeed."

"I couldn't tell you," he told her quietly, "I can't say I make such remarks very frequently."

He delighted in watching her blush deepen for a second, not to mention that fact that his heart was just picking up its normal rate again after missing a beat at the way she described him.

"But, if you don't mind me saying, Mrs Crawley," he continued, knowing full well that she would mind, "I think that might rather undo your original argument."

Her mouth fell open in shock.

"Would you care to explain that rather astonishing remark?" she asked him, folding her arms defensively across her chest and fixing him with a very suspicious gaze.

"Gladly," he replied, "It undermines your argument because it would seem that intelligence is just as low a priority for women as it is for men. **'**Handsome, well-respected, kind, intelligent'. That's what you said, and it would seem that intelligence is only a woman's fourth priority. That makes you as bad as us, at least."

He realised too late that quoting her back to herself like that told her implicitly that he was recalling her word for word, but he didn't really care. He was too busy being fascinated by the concentration in her expression as her mind worked furiously to form a response.

"That's not what I said," she told him calmly, "Well, that's to say it _is _what I said; but I didn't mean for you to take it like-..."

"It doesn't mean it's not true, though, does it?" he interjected.

"I suppose not," she finally admitted, begrudgingly.

"So your hypothesis, Mrs Crawley, is that in fact all human beings are driven by basic superficiality- animal instinct one might call it- rather than a wish for anything more noble or good?"

There was a testing pause.

"It's a theory," she told him quietly.

"It is," he conceded.

They were quiet for a few moments, watching each other, both torn between wariness and affection.

"I don't really believe that, though," she told him finally, "Not really. I'm just-... I was just frustrated with everything. And I certainly didn't mean for you to take any offence from it, Dr. Clarkson."

"I understand," he assured her, "I take no offence from it at all, Mrs Crawley."

It seemed that without either of them noticing they had taken some steps closer together.

"Good," she replied, her voice considerably softer now, her eyes still somehow drawn towards the floor, "You've known me a while now; you must realise that when I'm cross I'm not to be taken entirely seriously."

There was a pause. She looked up, wondering why he did not reply; her expression turning a little quizzical as she caught the look on his face.

"I had rather hoped that I might be able to take you at least partly seriously," he admitted, a smile on his lips so that she could dismiss his next remark as a joke if she so chose, "You just called me handsome."

At last, she met his eyes. A similar smile flitted across her face.

"You just called me beautiful," she reminded him.

"Yes," he admitted, there was nothing else he could do, "I did."

And she was. She was so close that, if he chose, he could reach out and touch her.

"Mrs Crawley, I hope you won't think that I'm trying to be forwa-..."

He was interrupted by a brisk knock at the door. The sole consolation was the flash of disappointment he witnessed in her face before he turned, begrudgingly, to answer it.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so much for all of your reviews; I found them very encouraging, I'm so glad you like it!**

She had to marvel at his unfaltering air of calm. And also at his rather astonishing ability to lie through his teeth without his voice wavering in the slightest: as Cousin Violet stepped forward into the office- without having been invited to- and asked if she was interrupting anything important, he replied that she wasn't, with admirable politeness and restraint. Further than the Dowager Countess only bursting in on their conversation- which Isobel had been finding highly enjoyable, even in spite of being argued into a corner, and being made to retract her opinions- she had been fairly sure that in those moments Dr. Clarkson had been on the verge of kissing her, just as the cursed knock on the door came. And she didn't think she'd have minded one bit. Yes, this was certainly what she would call an interruption.

"And you're not needing to dash off to somewhere or other?" Violet continued to question, once she'd satisfied herself that she probably _had_ been interrupting them, in spite of Richard's assertions to the contrary.

"I assure you, Lady Grantham, imminent departure was the very furthest thing from my mind."

He spoke plainly and clearly; his real meaning, the assurance he was offering Isobel rather than Lady Grantham, perfectly apparent. Isobel looked down at the desk, hoping that her cousin would not notice her; she was incapable of disguising the smile that sprang to her lips at that remark. No such luck.

"I am so pleased," Violet told Richard with a dry, humourless smile; then, looking pointedly at Isobel, "Though I had rather thought Cousin Isobel looked in something of a hurry to get away?"

Apart from anything, Isobel knew that she looked nothing of the sort; her feet had been positively rooted to the spot from the moment that she had thought that Richard might be about to lean towards her. Richard obviously wasn't the only one who could lie through their teeth.

"Did you?" she replied, feigning oblivious nonchalance, hoping against hope that her voice would come out at a reasonably normal pitch, "No, no, I was just about to sit down and do some work."

Unable to look at Violet's expression- she was fairly convinced that it would be absolutely priceless- she withdrew the chair and, very pointedly, sat down in it. All the while, though she pretended to be absorbed in the papers she started to mindlessly rustle through, she listened closely to the silence between the doctor and her cousin. She had the funniest feeling that Richard was trying to resist the temptation to turn around and either smile or glare at her.

"Well," she heard Violet say, after a lengthy pause, "I had rather hoped that we might- that is to say _you, _Dr. Clarkson, and _I_- might be able to discuss the annual general meeting of the hospital board. Some time this afternoon might be best," she added, "Cousin Isobel, will that work of yours take very long?"

Isobel bit her lip.

"Oh, most probably, Cousin Violet," she replied, without looking up.

"Then, yes, I think we should most certainly talk this afternoon," Violet affirmed, looking expectantly up at Dr. Clarkson.

Isobel waited in anticipation of what Richard was going to say.

"Well, I'm afraid, your Ladyship, that I must disagree with you," Richard replied in a tone of the utmost courtesy, "After all, I'm sure you would concede the fact that we certainly shouldn't hold any such discussions without the chairman of the board being present."

"Well, naturally. We just need to find him, and-..."

Violet broke off abruptly when she realised what she'd just agreed to. In her haste to sideline Isobel, she had neglected to think about what she was saying yes to and forgotten entirely that the chairman of the board was not a man at all, but a woman; a woman sitting in the same office as them, trying very, very hard not to laugh at the most ridiculous slip-up. This time- not being on the receiving end of it- Isobel could marvel unrestrainedly at Richard's marvellously quick power of argument.

"Another afternoon, it will have to be, then, Lady Grantham," Richard replied, managing to sound genuinely regretful, "As we have just established, Mrs Crawley cannot possibly spare the time to talk to the likes of you and I just at the moment. Perhaps we can find a time when we are all unoccupied to have a talk? Allow me to show you out, though."

"No, no," she heard Lady Violet reply hastily, "I can see to myself. Perhaps, after all, there is something I need to be doing this afternoon, a rather urgent matter as it happens-... Good afternoon, Dr. Clarkson. Mrs Crawley," she added with a definitely stony presence in her voice.

"Good afternoon," Isobel called cheerfully to her retreating back, before Richard shut the door firmly behind her.

For a moment they were quiet, Richard standing with his back to the door, Isobel still seated and propping up her head on her fist, her elbow resting on the arm of the desk's chair. A flicker of a smile passed quietly between them. Isobel was the first to speak.

"My goodness," she remarked quietly, though almost laughing, "She was keen to get you on your own."

"She was keen to get rid of you," he replied.

"She always is."

He snorted his mirth, leaning backwards against the door for a moment. She knew it would be most sensible to turn back towards her desk and resume pretending to sort through her papers, but there was no real need now that Violet had gone. Besides which, she did not want to. So she kept watching him.

"You handle her well," he remarked.

She surveyed him suspiciously.

"Are you _trying _to be ironic?"

"No. I'm sure I don't know what I'd do if I was related to a woman like that," he told her, earning himself a little bit more of a smile.

"If you were related to her then you'd be used to her," she informed him, "Unless you were in the delightful position that I am; where I have been recently inducted into the genealogical proximity- only the proximity, mind you- of the aristocracy, and have discovered all of these _delightful _relations along with it."

He smiled at her, not bothering to ask if she was trying to be ironic.

"It's funny when you say it like that," he mused, almost thinking aloud to himself, "It's only when you say it like that that it reminds me of who I am in relation to you. And I feel unfit to kiss your hand. So to speak," he added hurriedly.

Isobel tried not to let his turn of phrase flaw her entirely.

"As it happens, I thought you did very well just now," she remarked lightly, " You were very polite to her, at any rate. I was very impressed: I'm sure I couldn't have been half as controlled myself."

"Really, Mrs Crawley?" he questioned.

"Yes," she assured him, thinking that it was certainly an odd question to ask, "If she'd stayed for much longer I'm sure I would have been sorely tempted to tell her to get out and leave us alone."

He was quiet in response to that, and it took her a moment to realise why. She had just very much implied that she wanted to be left alone with him. Certainly, there were worse things to inadvertently imply, but this was quite enough to keep her busy for the moment. She cleared her throat nervously.

"Not that you would want to chase Lady Violet out of here just so you could be left alone with me," she amended, looking fixedly at the arm of the chair, feeling an utter fool.

He was quiet for a moment, and, hearing no response, her hopes for a reasonable resolution to this entire incident plummeted still further.

"You do yourself a disservice, Mrs Crawley," he spoke finally, "I would have said being alone with you rated pretty highly in my motivations for "chasing Lady Violet out" as you so put it."

Her head picked up sharply, as did the corners of her mouth as she looked into his face to see if he was being serious.

"Or possibly," he corrected himself, looking slightly nervous, "The main reason."

Pushing her chair back cautiously, she stood up to be on a level with him again; taking slightly wobbly steps back towards him. Stepping forwards from the door, he met her half way.

"Dr. Clarkson, what were you about to say just before..." she nodded over his shoulder in the vague direction of the door- not wanting to tempt fate into a repeat performance by referring directly to their interruption.

"I was going to say... Would you find me terribly forward if..."

He leant forwards, pressing his lips against hers so briefly that she had barely closed her eyes against the tumult of feelings he evoked before he had pulled away.

She blinked heavily, looking directly into his uncertain eyes.

"Oh, yes, terribly forward," she told him, her hands somehow having moved to rest on his forearms, "But certainly not unwelcome. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"Mrs Crawley..." he began quietly.

She shook her head.

"Isobel."

"Isobel."

"Richard," she smiled at him as she moved forward this time to gently capture his lips.

**Do you want any more? Please review if you have the time.**


	4. Chapter 4

**For some reason this was nightmarishly difficult to write; I am sorry for the delay.**

It was certainly ironic, she thought, standing up to walk- distractedly- around her sitting room, having finally given up on trying to read. Very ironic indeed, that she should start the day lamenting the lack of deference that was to be found for an intelligent woman- almost implicitly inferring that, to an extent, she included herself in this category- and now here she was acting like a silly besotted school girl! She wished it was ironic in a way she could find amusing, but she couldn't; she was only irritated with her own inability to rid herself of the thoughts of Richard that had plagued her for hours now. More specifically, thoughts of the way that Richard had kissed her. Though she knew it was absurd, there were times when she could have sworn that she thought she felt the gentle pressure of his lips against hers still lingering there.

All of this inane thinking had made it entirely impossible for her to concentrate. She opened the window a fraction to let the cool air in. The breeze brushed gently against her skin, cooling her forehead pleasantly, and it was only then that she realised how warm she had been. She sighed, pushing the loose strands of hair away from her face.

She sat back down heavily, feeling quite useless like this. It had been a mistake to leave the hospital so early, she realised that now. There was absolutely no point in distancing herself from Richard if she was only going to sit around here thinking about him for the rest of the day. She had hoped to regain control of herself a little by leaving- before one of them got carried away- but in fact it had had the very opposite effect. The only advantage was that getting carried away was no longer possible without him there, and now that wasn't half as attractive a notion as it had been before. Now she could hardly wait to see him; she could think of nothing else but seeing him; she couldn't wait for him to kiss her again, to hold her softly, to look at her and run his hand slowly along the side of her face. She had done the very opposite of regaining control. But it was too late for her to go back to the hospital now; and she couldn't be sure how he'd react to her turning up unannounced on his doorstep- no doubt uncontrollably begging him to take her in his arms again. It was probably reasonable, though, to guess that he would be alarmed by such a display, at the very least.

She allowed her head to loll backwards against the top of the couch in frustration, sighing heavily and blinking a few times at the ceiling. It was hopeless; the sooner she called an end to this day the better. She stood up again, rubbing her eye haphazardly with one hand, thinking what a sad thought that had been. It was sad that her day was ending this was- dull and frustrated- when, though it had begun in irritation, it had also been filled with the most wondrous sense of happiness, a strange kind of hope when Richard had kissed her.

She made a firm decision: she would go and see him tomorrow, for no reason at all. She would go for the sake of seeing him, and not attempt to disguise that fact from him. He could make of it what he would.

Approaching the door of the sitting room, she was able- faintly- to hear the knock at the front door. It was Molesley's evening off and she knew Matthew would not have heard it; so she made her way rather wearily to answer it for herself, both wondering who it could be at this time in the evening and thinking quite ruefully that she had had quite enough of knocks on doors for one day.

However, all notions of ruefulness fled from her mind once she had opened the door.

"Dr. Cla- Richard?" she stuttered a little as she corrected herself, remembering she could call him that now.

He looked nervous; and was, with the slightest suggestion of awkwardness, holding quite a sizeable bunch of flowers.

"I hope you'll forgive the lateness of this call," he told her earnestly, sounding slightly more formal than he had earlier, and standing a little straighter, "For you," he told her rather unnecessarily, handing her the flowers.

"Thank you," she told him, smiling, "They're beautiful."

She placed a slight emphasis on the word, remembering how it had so fluently tripped from his lips earlier that day. That seemed to hearten him, and he looked slightly less nervous.

"I'm glad you like them," he told her, "They're from the hospital garden."

"Yes, I know, I've often seen them and admired them."

"I-..." he began uneasily, "It wasn't just the flowers," he told her, a little cryptically.

She looked at him questioningly.

"I wanted to see you," he admitted, "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you all afternoon. About... what happened," he finished, aware that they were standing in the open air.

Her smile widened considerably.

"I'm glad I wasn't the only one," she told him, "Would you like to come in, Richard?"

He took a second to decide.

"If I may," he replied.

She laughed.

"Of course you may! I've just asked you in, haven't I?"

He followed her into the house, closing the door behind himself, and then on into to sitting room.

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